


Coucher avec Moi

by Jackrabbit



Series: Power Trio Cuddles [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Friendship, Gen, Male Friendship, Non-Sexual Intimacy, domestic cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:37:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackrabbit/pseuds/Jackrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time, Enjolras comes to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coucher avec Moi

**Author's Note:**

> Jack again! The power trio's pretty much hijacked my brain, guys. I can't help it, they're too adorable. The next installment will include Courfeyrac, too. I've got at least 3 more in this series on the way, and then I got inspired to write a shippy fic in the same iteration of the timeline, so there's gonna be that too.  
> Once again, this is dedicated to my dearest darling Disa. Also deepest thanks to my dear friend Alice, who proofread both this fic and the first one, and to the wonderful Paige, who, for reasons I don't understand, puts up with me rambling about friendships and cuddles in 19th century France after all of my other contacts have gone to sleep because of timezones.  
> Enjoy!

After the first night, Combeferre had not had to resort to such extreme tactics, though if it was to his relief or regret he was unsure. Enjolras, now conscious of how Combeferre dedicated was to keeping him from complete exhaustion, allowed himself to be bullied and cajoled into sleeping in more reasonable ways and sometimes even inverted the situation, insisting that Combeferre put down his books and rest. This change in Enjolras's habits pleased Combeferre to no end, as he knew that Enjolras could only be swayed when he was certain he was in the wrong, a rare occurrence indeed. Every little change for the better was a point to Combeferre. 

There was one thing he was glad Enjolras had chosen not to change, however. The dynamic of their friendship remained identical to how it was before the incident. They hadn’t yet spoken of the night they had shared a bed, Combeferre's limbs curled protectively around Enjolras with Enjolras pressed close to Combeferre's chest, and though they had slept innocently, like children, Combeferre had woken afraid that Enjolras would push him away, repulsed by his conduct. Thankfully, Enjolras had done nothing of the sort. He seemed to have instead decided to merely pretend that nothing had happened, except to agree more readily to Combeferre’s nagging. 

However, with relations between several allied groups growing strained as members became impatient, Combeferre once again watched exhaustion wear away at his friend. Though Enjolras was not yet going consecutive nights without sleeping, there were nights when rest was forgone in favor of discussions or arbitrations or letters or pamphlets, and on the rest, the amount of time Enjolras spent asleep was minimal at best. Not that Combeferre was faring much better - as one of Enjolras's two closest lieutenants, the only one who lived with him, as well as a dedicated student, he slept at most as much Enjolras did, and Combeferre didn’t have quite the same manic energy that seemed to drive Enjolras on his second, third, fourth day without sleep.

He thought about offering to share a bed with Enjolras again, but he was uncertain of how Enjolras would react. Combeferre had not minded it; in fact, as far as he could remember, he'd enjoyed the experience. It reminded him of growing up and sharing beds with younger cousins when they were frightened, a reassuring, kindly feeling that comforted while he slept. But what indication had Enjolras given him that the sentiment was mutual? There had been none. Certainly, Enjolras had made no sign that he disapproved of the event, but neither had he indicated a desire to repeat it. 

And so Combeferre held his tongue, and they both rapidly approached exhaustion. 

Then, to Combeferre's surprise, Enjolras approached him. 

"I have a favor to ask of you." The words startled Combeferre out of his work. Not only was he helping Enjolras settle disputes between sympathetic societies, he had exams approaching that he could not afford to ignore. Between all the different pressures, he'd resigned himself to sleeping only in short naps throughout the day. 

Now, jerked back to reality by the sound of Enjolras's voice, he shook his head to clear it and turned to face his friend. "A favor?" he asked, trying to rub the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. He’d been bent over his papers for hours, he realized.

"Yes." Enjolras stood before him, face schooled as confidently as Combeferre had ever seen it, though his posture revealed some small measure of uncertainty. "I was hoping that you might sleep with me again tonight." 

Combeferre, his head still swimming with anatomical diagrams of the heart and lungs, was certain he'd misheard. Surely weeks of not speaking of the event meant that Enjolras disapproved of it. "Pardon?" 

"I would like you to share my bed tonight. I believe it would be beneficial to the both of us, as neither of us has been sleeping well or in regular hours as of late, and you often insist on the importance of sleep to brain function. I slept quite well in your company, as I believe you did in mine, and–”

“I understand,” Combeferre cut in. He pushed his hair back from where it was falling over his glasses, amused and gratified. “I think.  
Enjolras had not moved. “And your answer?”

“I’d be honored,” Combeferre replied. “Just… give me a few minutes to finish here and to change?”

Enjolras nodded and retreated to his bedroom, leaving Combeferre alone with his textbooks and thoughts. He bookmarked his place in his anatomy textbook, noting regretfully that he wouldn’t even be starting on his philosophy notes tonight, and pushed back from the table with a small smile. It was good to know that Enjolras did not disapprove of what he’d done that night, he thought as he changed into his nightclothes. Then, drawing a thin dressing gown around him, he crossed the living space again to Enjolras’s doorway and knocked.

“Come in,” came the response.

Combeferre pushed the door open and surveyed the room. Enjolras stood before his bureau, stowing the clothes he’d worn and fishing out a bit of string to tie off the end of his braid. The shoulders of his nightshirt were nearly worn through with age – Combeferre could see the lines of the top of Enjolras’s shoulder blades. Combeferre suddenly recalled Courfeyrac’s distress over Enjolras’s lack of attention to his clothing and habit of buying clothes for himself only when reminded to do so and had to hold back a laugh. Surely their friend would have much to say about the state and fashion of Enjolras’s nightclothes as well.

Enjolras turned to face him and held out the length of string. “Could you braid my hair again? You seem to be better at it than I.”

“Of course.” Combeferre let the door drop closed behind him and crossed the room to his friend. There was a brush sitting on the bureau; remembering how Enjolras had responded to having his hair stroked the last time, Combeferre picked it up. Enjolras’s hair was fine and soft, still remarkably like a child’s, but the curls were tight and tangled easily. As Combeferre smoothed out the knots and twists, Enjolras hummed appreciatively.

“Where did you learn to do this?” he asked.

“I have a large extended family with many younger cousins,” Combeferre replied, “most of whom are female. Before I was old enough to be included in the discussions of my father and uncles and my few older, male cousins, I spent much of my time with them.” Though the tangles had mostly fallen away now, he continued brushing, if only to see Enjolras continue to relax under the strokes. “When I realized they weren’t learning the same things I was, I tried to teach them. When their mothers were absent or engaged in other activities, I took care of them, and that included learning to fix their braids and make sure their nursemaids came to take care of them in the evening and sending them to bed. Sometimes I helped look after the children of the staff, too, if I snuck down to see them and their parents were busy.”

“So your concern for the troubles of women and children started early, then?” Enjolras ventured. He sounded as if he was falling asleep under the brush. Combeferre finally put it down and began separating out sections of hair to braid.

“Very,” he said amusedly. “I had to wonder why they weren’t all getting the same education I was. I loved my books and my tutors and couldn’t imagine not having them.” He paused, drawing up memories he hadn’t considered in years as he twisted Enjolras’s curls into a simple plait. “And I never went hungry or cold, and couldn’t understand why the servants’ children and the children in the streets sometimes had to.”

Enjolras hummed contentedly in response. “You have always been the kind one,” he concluded with the warm, nonsensical confidence of people either completely relaxed or falling asleep. Combeferre had to tuck his face into Enjolras’s shoulder to hide a smile.

“I do try,” he responded, and tied off the braid with the ribbon he’d been handed. _My cousins would be proud and envious_ , he thought. “Now go on,” he continued, gesturing toward the bed before placing his glasses on Enjolras’s bedside table, “we’re both nearly dead on our feet, and I for one would like to stop being so.”

Enjolras nodded and settled into bed, scooting as close to the wall as he could. He’d done that before, Combeferre recalled as he slid under the covers as well, the last time they’d slept together, and he wondered if that was the position Enjolras preferred – perhaps the solidity of the wall against his back gave him some sort of comfort or strength. 

They settled onto their sides, facing each other. Combeferre closed his eyes momentarily, only to find Enjolras’s still fixed on him when he reopened them. They remained silent, staring uneasily at each other for several seconds, before Combeferre’s breath huffed out of him and shaped into a laugh and Enjolras’s lips twitched upward and spread into an affectionate smile. Combeferre’s quickly follow suit and soon Enjolras was also laughing and slid forward across the bed to smother his laughter against Combeferre, who had moved forward to meet him in the middle of the bed.

By the time they finally quieted again, Combeferre had wrapped both his arms around Enjolras and rolled them over so that he could lie on his back, Enjolras lying half on top of him with his head pillowed on Combeferre’s shoulder and one arm draped over Combeferre’s waist. Combeferre was rubbing light, soft circles on Enjolras’s back through Enjolras’s nightshirt with both hands, though the cloth was so old and worn that he was half afraid it would tear under his ministrations, and one of Enjolras’s ankles was slotted between his own.

_It should feel cramped_ , he thought as Enjolras sighed and settled a little more heavily against him. Enjolras’s bed, like his own in his bedroom not too far away, was meant for only a single occupant. When they’d stared silently at each other, Enjolras pressed against the wall and Combeferre just inches from falling off the edge of the mattress, there couldn’t have been more than a foot of space between them. If Combeferre relinquished his current hold on Enjolras and spread his arms flat along the mattress, he could not have moved them more than a few degrees before one knocked against the wall and the other dangled off the bed. And yet, he was completely comfortable in sharing this small space with Enjolras. If the contented murmurs and sighs the blond made were any indication, he had no objections either.

_It should feel cramped_ , he thought again, _but it doesn’t._ If he were completely honest with himself, it was the most at peace he’d felt in weeks.

Once again, Enjolras’s voice broke him out of his reverie. “We must address the trials for that new fellow of Courfeyrac’s tomorrow,” he said, his voice muddled and words slurred with fatigue and content. “The flutist from the Conservatoire, what was his name?”

“Jean Prouvaire,” Combeferre supplied. “Courfeyrac says he’s a poet as well and thinks he might improve the wording of our pamphlets. He also says that Prouvaire’s quite young, but has solid ideals, and says a lot of very flattering things about both his character and appearance. He’s quite taken with the boy, I think.”

“Mmm,” replied Enjolras sleepily. “I trust Courfeyrac’s assessment of Prouvaire. He has a talent for reading people – Courfeyrac does, that is. But we must still test him, just in case. And we must see if the Society has need of assistance as well – we are doing well in our own works, we must see if our sister societies are faring as well.”

“Of course, and we will,” said Combeferre. “But for now, rest.” He lifted his head and pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of Enjolras’s head. His friend sighed happily and held him tighter. “I am going to fall asleep and inadvertently ignore you in just a moment, so I suggest you hold in your words until the morning and do the same.”

Enjolras sighed and nodded, shifting slightly to achieve a minutely more comfortable position. Combeferre could feel him move through the catch and pull of the cotton of nightshirts. He lifted one hand from Enjolras’s back and moved it to stroke along the waves of Enjolras’s hair instead, remembering the soothing effect it always seemed to have. Sure enough, Enjolras relaxed almost instantaneously, his head lolling slightly under the attentions of Combeferre’s fingers.

Without ceasing either the circles he was rubbing on Enjolras’s back or the strokes he was administering to Enjolras’s hair, Combeferre smiled and closed his eyes. They would both wake the next morning fully rested and content, and coupled with the heavy, reassuring warmth of Enjolras’s body next to his, the thought sent him off to a deep, restful sleep.


End file.
